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Bella Ink is naked, tied to a stiff plastic chair in a room that smells of mildew and panic. A digital timer blinks just inches beneath her bruised, heaving breasts: 14:31 ... 14:30 ...

Her wrists are lashed so tight the nylon bites into the raw skin above the ulna, pinning her arms to the chair. Thicker rope winds around her torso. A wide strip of bl*ck tape wraps three full circuits around her head, sealing lips shut and trapping terrified sobs in her throat.

She has no memory of how she was taken. Only the dull ache along her shoulders and the striped welts across her abdomen remind her of the fl*gging her captor delivered earlier—a merciless rain of lashes that cr*cked on bare skin, turning pale flesh into a mosaic of red streaks. Every breath presses fresh bruises against the rope beneath her tits, making the p*in throb in rhythm with the countdown.

Beads of sweat roll down between her breasts. The timer ticks down. 09:57 ... 09:56 ...

Bella's eyes can't see what is under the chair, but she knows something is there. A device is crude but functional with the timer for a trigger.

But our Bella is resourceful. Her straining and moving have moved the knot on her right wrist to where her fingers can get to it. Now she can get that knot loose in time. Maybe. She works carefully, and quickly. And as we know, Bella's MMA training has taught her not only how to fight, but how to be precise in her movements. The knot is soon free and so is her wrist. Bella stops the timer and carefully moves it to the side, ensuring it will not be disturbed. She then works on the other knots and frees herself from her b*ndage and escapes!

But wait, there's an Alternate Ending!

Bella thrashes against the bindings. The knots don’t give an inch. Muffled whimpers vibrate against the tape; tears run hot over the tape border onto her cheeks.

02:42 ...

Somewhere in the darkness above, a camera red-light glows like a single demonic eye—someone’s streaming this for the world to see. Bella’s legacy was once sweat-soaked MMA titles; now her most watched performance will be the last three minutes of her life, naked and t*rmented.

01:25 ...

The countdown pulses faster in her mind than reality. Every second stretches into a decade of agony. Breasts heave faster, rope digging deeper.

00:45 ...

She can feel it: the moment approaching when her body will blossom into a red bloom of fire. Panic gives way to an eerie calm; her eyes close, lashes damp, the soft exhale through her nose the only sound she can make.

00:12 ...

The last image she’ll ever know is the digits melting into zero at her waist.

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